


The Best There Is

by AspiratingAnxiety



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Multi, Oneshots and nonsense, Since you know..., The Purge, basically a bunch of requests from tumblr, figured I'd better get back into Ao3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-09-13 23:39:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16901964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AspiratingAnxiety/pseuds/AspiratingAnxiety
Summary: A collection of Dick Grayson! All of my oneshots, requests, headcanon, and imagines that are exclusively to do with Dick are all tied up here. Almost all works will be 2nd POV reader inserts. Some may not be... but I kinda' doubt it.





	1. Dating Dick Grayson Would Include... (headcanon)

-Puns!

-QUIPS!

-J O K E S!

This guy is never off. Ever the performer, your quietest, most domestic moments together are still filled with overly dramatic retellings and playful humorous jives.

-Dick LIVES to hear you laugh. There is no joke too dirty, no expression too silly, no story too embarrassing. He will do and say whatever it takes to get you rolling, no matter how foul your mood.

-Even Dick Grayson’s Dad Jokes are Funny.

-He loves to be fussed over. When you baby his injuries, neaten his hair/clothes, or barrage him with daily text updates and check-ins, he feels valued. It’s not about clingyness or ego, it’s about feeling prioritized.

-So long as you’re not being condescending, every little thoughtful thing you do or say is cataloged and recalled with affection.

-Casual touches all day, all night.

-Not just handholding and couch cuddles. Dick will gladly throw an arm around your shoulders, but he prefers to weave that arm down over your back, then lace your fingers together over your far hip. He’s just fine with a peck goodbye, but he’d rather a flurry of light kisses all over your nose and cheeks.

-He’s not much of a cook. He manages well enough, but outside of his wheelhouse of high-protein low carb meal planning to support the vigilante lifestyle, he’s left to his indulgent lazy-day meals. That is to say, if it’s not some variation of chicken and veggies, it’s cereal or the recipes of a few choice breakfast foods he demanded to learn from Alfred.

-If you two are doing a date night at home, he leaves dinner in your hands and makes stunningly delicious pancakes in the morning.

-If he’s really feeling sweet, he will utilize his highly developed physical prowess to stealth out of bed and prepare these pancakes in virtual silence. He will then wake you with soft touches, many kisses, and the absolute best breakfast in bed.

-Your fights are very rare and usually mild. They start with some nettle one of the other of you harbors over something dumb like dirty socks placed on the coffee table or unanswered calls/texts. Because your relationship with Dick is structured by mutual validation through many small acts of consideration, when someone does something that can be viewed as inconsiderate, it is hurtful and upsetting in ways that seem frivolous to those outside of your relationship.

-Fights start with flippant, sharp comments that grow into raised voices as the confrontation elucidates the root of the problem: either you or he is feeling neglected and underappreciated.

-Neither of you has ever shouted. You’ve gotten loud, but never shouted.

-You’re basically always the one to make peace. People give Dick so much credit for being amiable and friendly, but he’s also prideful.

-He is a demanding partner, not just because of his dangerous work as Nightwing, but because he can be emotionally draining and rather high maintenance.

-You know these things and accept them. You also know that he is so often the one to bend in his work and family.

-You love him. You have learned that giving him the space to be petulant and a bit petty sometimes has meant the world to him. After all, defending inconsequential preferences is an expression of self value.

-Dick professionally puts the physical and emotional wellbeing of others above his own.

-He is the most emotionally intelligent member of his family, and as such, has taken it upon himself to try to stabilize their state of mind constantly at much cost to his own.

-It took you two strong, unresolved disagreements to realize that, deep down, he wanted to be coddled as the fragile priority (for once in his life).

-You’re not a saint. You can’t always swallow your pride and reconcile the grievances on your own.

-These instances affirm the strength of your relationship more than award winning pancakes or acrobatic sex.

-When you can’t be the bigger better person, and you say as much, Dick drops his pretenses along with his arms.

-Ultimately, no matter how demanding he can be, Dick is a giver. He wants you to be happy, not just with him, but always.

-If you express a frustration or hurt that he’s caused in a genuine, emotionally vulnerable way, he will always, always do whatever you need him to in order to reconcile.


	2. Dad Hot (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ooooh girl i just laughed myself silly thinking of a request for like 20/21 ish year old dick grayson and his girl with the prompt 'Is it weird if I say that your dad’s really hot?' with dear sweet brucie - please please please write this for me i do not have your skills xxxxx  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! I laughed so hard when I saw this request. It was entirely written listening to “Daddy Issues” by The Neighborhood.   
> I’m not sorry.    
> It’s a quick one, but brevity is the soul of wit, after all. (Thanks, Ao3.)  
> I changed a few things about the prompt. Mostly, I didn’t use the direct dialogue. The meaning and implications of the words aren’t changed, I just altered the diction to fit the character and flow of conversation.    
> Thank you for your request, darling. Clearly, just based upon the sheer number of beautifully creative prompts that you’ve put into my askbox, you are incredibly talented. Don’t sell yourself so short, dammit!

 

You cannot believe your eyes. You’ve seen pictures of Dick’s adoptive father on magazines and in the newspaper. Online too.

Nobody raised on the East Coast makes it to 22 without coming across the face of American royalty.   

It’s still a shock to see him casually mingling on the front lawn of Gotham University, chatting up the pretty blonde woman handing out attendance pins for all of those at the Literacy Brunch. 

Much like Dick, you find that pictures haven’t done Bruce Wayne any kind of justice. 

You continue to ogle, securely buckled into the passenger seat of your boyfriend’s parked vehicle. Dick rummages beside you; tucking the charging cord out of sight, lowering the volume so your ears aren’t assaulted when you return to the car, and double-checking to be sure he that has his phone and wallet.

There is something in the way that Mr. Wayne moves… in the way that he throws his head back to laugh at the woman’s words. The familiar coy hold of his mouth as he grins down at her. 

“You sure you’re adopted?” The question pops out of your mouth unbidden, and you suppress a wince. 

Insensitive. The last thing you want is to come across as dismissive of his mother and father. Dick’s been stoked about bringing you home to meet Bruce and Alfred for the entire week, but you noticed a lingering sadness peeking from behind his cheerful front. You fear that the unthinking implication might prod whatever tender spot is responsible for his quiet sorrow and further dampen his eager spirits. 

Instead of offense, your boyfriend gives a quick, huffing chuckle. “Um, yes? I am certain that my adoption occurred. It was a  _mildly_ significant event in my life. One that I was old enough to have a say in.”

You give him a dry, sheepish look. You feel foolish for spilling words without forethought, but the sarcasm in his tone stirs the impulse to snark back. After assessing Dick’s affect for a moment, you are awash in relief. His smile arches all the way up into his vivid eyes, and it reassures you that genuine excitement about introducing you to the family he’s known since the loss of his parents has won out over any insidious, depressive thoughts about the late Graysons. 

This game is an acceptable way to connect Dick to his assumed family, or so it would seem by his social cues.  

“I dunno’, babe,” you tease, embracing the desire to be ornery now that he’s in a tickling mood himself. You look back toward Bruce and the blonde with an overly dramatic expression of skepticism. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d put money on his making a biological contribution to all of this.” You motion in a vague, circular wave toward the driver’s side.    

“Ha!” Dick barks, unbuckling and allowing the safety belt to lash back into place loudly. “That would have been an incredible achievement, even for Bruce. He was like…  _twelve_ the year I was conceived.”

“Still though,” you say. “He looks like you. Not just in your coloration or anything, but-” your words slip away as you attempt to contextualize the similarities you’re seeing.

You watch quietly through the windshield for a handful of moments, gathering your thoughts. Even at this distance, the impeccable social dexterity Mr. Wayne employs as he navigates away from the blonde and into a humming throng of giddy, chatty people is evident. He exudes a sense of smug, male confidence communicated through his straight posture, wide shoulders held aloft, and the puff to his broad chest. These nonverbal behaviors might have rendered the man presumptuous, but he avoids this by merit of the abundant, dopey kindness he offers through every smile and glance. An occasional fumble with the placement of an elbow or a foot also breaks up what might be an intimidating figure. 

When not prey to “accidentally” bumping or tripping over anyone, Bruce moves with a fluid, almost predatory, gait that you had come to associate solely with Dick. If he were a touch shorter, a bit younger, and wore his hair with more length, you could easily see yourself mistaking him for Dick; traversing the crowd ever so politely while not allowing anyone to hinder his path. 

A path leading him directly toward the car. 

Obviously, the cultivated social behaviors, micro-expressions, and some aspects of physicality that you find synonymous with your boyfriend have been learned from the billionaire approaching your vehicle.  

Getting a slightly more detailed glance at him as he closes in, you decide to crack the whip and give your boyfriend a good verbal jab in the ribs. You turn your whole body to face Dick in a sudden flurry of motion, unfastening your seatbelt in the process. Dick blinks expectantly, eyes mockingly wide as though your movement startled him.

“Your spare dad is really hot,” you say in your most serious voice, nodding as if in quiet acceptance. “That’s what it is.” Dick’s jaw drops, and his eyes are widened with true, horrified shock as you carry on. “That’s what’s so similar: super hot dad.”

Dick waves his hands in front of his face as if trying to wipe away your sentiment. As you speak, he tosses his head back and forth near violently. His words burst from him when yours lull. 

“Oh, come  _on!_  I know you’re teasing, but we’ve crossed a line. There are two really offensive implications in there. One,” he holds up a finger as if chastising you. “Referring to Bruce as anything but an old man. Not even my old man.  _An_ old man. No hotness. None. Not hot at all.” 

You open your mouth to argue, fan the flames a bit more. It’s devilishly pleasing to see the rise you’ve gotten out of him this time. It was like spontaneous combustion. One minute, he’s all cool and ready for some picking. The next?  

_Ka- **boom**! _

He carries on without a pause, adding a finger to his count. “Two, that I am somehow dad hot. What the hell even, by the way, is  _dad hot?_ Not me. Certainly not what I am.”

You can’t keep from snickering as Dick flails. 

“Oh, you think you’re so funny? Mm.” He shakes his head slowly, pegging you with a disappointed stare. “Too far, honey. That one went too far. I’mma need you to reel that in before we get to Alfred, because I don’t think I’ll  _survive_ a comment like that about him.”

“A comment like what?”

You jump when a new voice interrupts Dick’s tirade. It is dulled through the sound barrier of the vehicle’s windows, but still perfectly clear.

Dick gives you one more admonishing look before clambering out of the car and dismissing Bruce’s question. 

He knows the old man heard the whole thing anyway, goddamn it. 

He’s never gonna’ live it down. 


	3. There's Only One Bed (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'theres only one bed' with dick grayson please, thank you!  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my sweet boo! This is one of my very favorite tropes ever of all time EVER. Thank you for requesting it.
> 
> Dunno’ if you’re gonna be upset, but this one is going to have some angst. Sharp angst unrelated to the reader/Dick relationship. It went in a lengthy hurt/comfort direction.
> 
> If this bothers you, as always, please let me know! Also, still Fem!Reader, as a male insert character was not requested. 
> 
> Lord God… this became way more detailed than I had intended. Like, this girl is now one of my favorite reader inserts. We may be seeing more of the ballerina, y’all. She’s spiffy. I likes it. 

 

Nightwing makes you uncomfortable in your own home. He affects you to such a degree that you cannot recall feeling so out of place ever before in your life. 

Shuffling through elite European boarding schools for the duration of your childhood eventually lent a sort of  _sameness_ to all unfamiliar settings. Cycles of new languages, new housing, new peers and instructors. Different was all just different, and strange things grew to be routine more and more quickly as you left your adolescence for womanhood. 

You had only just begun to enjoy the stability of earning your position as a resident ballerina with the world renowned Gotham Opera Company when a deranged serial killer (just how many of those does Gotham have, exactly?) targeting young women in the arts set his sights on you. Encrypted uploads of voyeuristic footage featuring you as the clear focus pinged some kind of flag one of the Robins put up on the dark web address the murderer used to document his slaughters. The lot of them approached you shortly afterward, as the police department’s hands were tragically tied. No harm, no foul, as far as the law was concerned. 

Creepy videos, but no way to trace them. Case iced-over out of the gate. Not wasting the manpower. No go.  

“Tough luck, chickie. People die in this city everyday. Invest in some pepper spray.” 

That’s seriously what one detective said to you. Verbatim. 

_Chickie_.   

Fortunately, Batman and his family were dedicated enough to split the additional task of keeping low-key tabs on you over the next handful of months. With daily texting and frequent nighttime checkups, it was inevitable that all of you would become rather well acquainted. 

Robin, in particular, was keen to visit on account of your new kitten, Bumble.

The seemingly stern boy warmed to you quickly, in his way. He started to bring more than educational toys and treats of higher quality for your pet. Classic Russian literature and Slavic historical texts in their original languages were gifted to you. It became a game. Robin would haughtily hand you an unfamiliar author or subject upon which you would be  _ruthlessly_ quizzed when he next returned to see to your safety. The taxing gesture was clearly one of friendship, though rather starched and academic. You tried not to let him down with your reading comprehension.   

Red Robin was more talkative via text. He’d brief you on all case progress and any individuals or behaviors to be weary of in terms of ruses or stalking techniques. In person, he was most distant. He often simply knocked at your window. You’d wave, and he would nod. The end.

At first you found the one with guns to be notably less… polite. Barging into your apartment with little to no notice, smoking in your home without permission, and leaving heaps of greasy motorcycle boot prints in his wake. However, you recognized that the intimidation factor he offered by merely being present was likely to thank for destroying the upload rate of unwanted video and images on the murderer’s site. Also, to your pleasant surprise, Red Hood found a way to be oddly charming in spite of his coarser demeanor and unforgiving air. His humor was infectious, and he knew a shocking amount about ballet. The technique as well as the current and historical icons of your niche dance culture. Conversing with him was easy and entertaining. Well worth missing sleep and dragging through practice the following morning.

Nightwing, boastfully the oldest of the bunch, was your least favorite late night house guest. Ever appreciative of all their consideration, you never voiced your preference for the younger brothers. Honestly, it made you feel silly and ungrateful to bristle and go all shifty in his company. There was no real reason to be ill at ease. Never rude or brusque, he behaved as a perfect gentleman toward you (if a bit familiar). 

Perhaps that was it? Unlike his brothers, he didn’t take any time at all to warm up before behaving as if the two of you had known one another for your entire lives. Nicknames, reassuring brushes and pats, wisecracks with punchlines that popped at your expense…

He texted more than anyone. More even than Red Robin. Never about the murderer, always about you and your day. Your interests. Your comfort and progress with the Opera. Hints on the test questions with which Robin was preparing to smite you. 

Nightwing made himself at home in your space, regularly sweeping every inch of your apartment for any bugs or cameras. He brought you food and vitamins, ushering himself to your cabinets and refrigerator as though your kitchen was simply there as a secondary pantry for his snacking convenience. A collection of hand-me-down dark ribbon, four tubes of  _New Skin_  liquid bandage, and proper crushed rosin was offered to you in a battered shoe box.

“Been a while since I needed any of it,” he explained with a crooked, dazzling smile. “Ballet was helpful, but not exactly a personal calling. My feet still haven’t forgiven me.” He motioned warily to the copious amount of liquid bandage.

Your cat was obsessed with him too. Climbing up his leg and yowling for attention the moment he realized that the oldest masked brother was present. Nightwing seemed to relish scooping up the tiny critter and dolling up some cuddly pose to snap a picture for Robin. Made the kid crazy jealous. The cat didn’t mind at all. Bumble just loved him, and you felt like a bumbling idiot every time he was around. 

Perhaps, if your mind had been with you and these reflections at the forefront, you would have put it together and protested being stashed in his apartment for protection.

The first person you call is Robin.                           

You’ve never phoned his contact before, and the first cycle of rings doesn’t get to finish before the boy is snapping over the line.

“He killed Bumble…” you say numbly, not waiting for a polite opportunity to speak. The tears that have rimmed your eyes as you take in the scene of your delicate, innocent baby-kitty mangled and displayed over a letter and an opulent bouquet begin trickling down your face. “He killed my Bumblebee, Robin.” 

“Lock yourself in a closet or a cabinet.  **Do not**  leave the premises. He is likely counting on your desire to flee and waiting just outside of your home or near one of the building’s exits.” 

He hangs up without a ‘be safe’ or any word of comfort for your loss. The lack of displayed interpersonal sentiment tips you over the edge, and you weep wildly for a few moments. You sob for the pain of your kitten and the destruction of your illusory safety. You have to viciously compartmentalize your ragged reactions in order to focus on Robin’s directions.

Tenderly gathering the broken form of your little companion into your arms, you cringe away from the tainted offerings and lock yourself in the closet as you were told. You know it’s less than half an hour, but it feels as though an eternity passes before the boy wonder comes crashing through your window. The door to your hiding place flies open, and Robin stares at the pitiful image you must make cradling your departed pet down on the floor, still in the majority of your sweaty training clothes from rehearsal. 

You’re too busy being terrified and heartbroken to feel the absolute shock you’re sure you will apply to this memory later when, not breaking eye contact, Robin strips away his mask to share a pained expression. You know his face. 

A Wayne. 

The youngest one?

He kneels down in front of you, reaching forward and giving the tip of Bumble’s cold little ear the barest touch. 

“We let you down.” His hands are gripping your upper arms now, pulling you to your feet. “But we’ll make him pay for this. For everything. _I swear it.”_  

There is a unique weight to the words. 

You are… moved. 

Vindicated.

Some of the shocked stupor lifts, and you entrust the unmasked Robin to tend what remains of your kitten as you pack a few things. He does not allow you to be in a room without him, wordlessly surveying the suddenly dangerous environment of your apartment with a predatory sharpness that you envy. 

You desire those spikes. That armor. The ability to be in control, even in the face of such an atrocity. 

As he observes, Robin removes his cape and wraps it carefully around your Bumble. When you are ready to depart, he returns to you a snugly swaddled bundle that you hold tight to your chest as you hustle after the agile boy through the shadowed back alleyways and side streets. He stops at a dock, looking to you, green eyes reflecting the low light as though he, himself, is partially feline in nature.

You’d believe it. 

Still silent, you strain to slip Bumble gently into the hungry current of the Gotham River. The water is dark, and so is Robin’s cape. You lose sight of him within moments. 

A hand grips your wrist, firm and unyielding. A bruising affection.

“What’s your name?” you ask, breaking the burdensome quiet.

He does not hesitate: “Damian.”

“Thank you, Damian.”      

The heavy lull sinks down over the two of you again. Damian does not let go of your wrist, but he does lighten his hold. After a few moments of respectful silence passes, he speaks. 

“Presently, I am taking you somewhere safe. My brother Richard’s apartment isn’t far, and his security measures are respectable.”

“Which one is Richard?” 

“You’ll know soon enough,” he mumbles, tugging you away from the water and a few blocks inland to scale a hearty steel fire escape.

He slides open a window and indicates that you should enter first. When he does not follow, you give him an inquisitive look. 

“Don’t fret,” he says. “I’ll send Richard this way shortly. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable.” His nose wrinkles, less than two feet from you. “Maybe look into taking a shower.” 

You have no response for that, and so you nod. 

The large window slips closed, sealing you into the dark, unfamiliar apartment. You see that Damian fidgets with something on his smartphone, still just a pane of glass away. There is the click of an automated lock and a pleasant electronic melody. 

Security system.

You watch the boy’s progress down and away for as long as you can before fumbling to the nearest light switch. The apartment is spacious for this area of the city. Ridiculously high ceilings with lots of sleek glass, exposed brick, open shelving, and industrial black metal touches. 

Very modern. Very bachelor. 

A set of stairs wing off between the kitchen and living room. They lead up to a bedroom loft area that overlooks the whole of the apartment below, separated by only a perfectly transparent glass dividing wall built to mimic the neat rectangular sections of the actual windows. 

Not really your style, but not bad either. It’s cultivated and clean. Honestly more than you’d think to ask of a man living on his own. 

You find the bathroom tucked behind the staircase. It’s sizable, lacking a bathtub in favor of a large shower with symmetrical tile work and more mock windows serving as glass doors. Stripping out of your rank clothing, you again attempt to analyze the cloudy, anesthetized distance keeping you from absolutely freaking out. 

A psycho broke into your home and killed your cat. 

A murdering lunatic with an obsession has locked onto you. 

A rapist. 

A serial killer. 

An actual monster ravaged your life in a way that simply hadn’t seemed  _real_ while you were texting Nightwing about roasted eggplant or arguing with Damian over the literary merit of Tolstoy.

Not taking the threat seriously had cost you the baby Bumble. 

The alarm chirps in a lower key, and you rush to rinse the final dregs of shampoo from your hair, dry, and throw on some sweatpants along with your comfiest sweater. You’re anxious to see which brother’s home you’ve invaded, curiosity and some lingering adrenaline shakes driving your choice to forgo conditioner. 

He’s at the kitchen counter, pulling items out of a paper sack. His back is to you, but you would recognize the proportions and that distinctive head-full of thick, dark hair anywhere. Instead of your usual dread or agitation, you are relieved. 

When you figure out that it’s him, it’s like your ears pop. 

There is a sudden burst in your chest, water rushes from your eyes, and you can feel the whole of your deadened fear and sorrow swell and bubble out of your throat. One minute, you’re slinking back behind the staircase to snag a glimpse. In the next, you’re running toward the man you recognize to be Nightwing and wrapping yourself around him. 

He’s turned to meet you, arms open. “I am so sorry, sweetheart,” he says, cheek against your sopping, tangled mop of hair. “We had no idea he was so close. His online traffic had completely died off. We thought he’d moved on, he’s done that before.”

You open your mouth to respond. Instead, air buckles into your lungs with a violent, ugly sound. He hugs you tighter. The firm, restrictive hold makes speaking twice the struggle. You don’t want him to loosen up though, so you power through in gasping, breathy bursts. 

“H-he killed… he k-killed my cat.” 

“I know,” he laments. “The evil son of a bitch.” 

“He’s g-gonna’ kill me too.” 

“He’s not. You’re safe here. He has no idea who I am or where I live, and I strongly suspect that the new mission focus for the lot of us is less finding the guy and more keeping Damian from killing the asshole.” 

You make a pathetic, non-committal sound, rutting your face into his T-shirt.  

He shushes you, dragging his wide hands up and down your sides. With all of the patience in the world, he continues to reassure you and keep you against him as you piece together your usual collected demeanor. 

It’s shyness, you realize, suddenly terrified to look him in the eyes after such a hysterical display. He’s made you uncomfortable all of this time because his attention flusters you. It wasn’t apprehension; it was bashfulness. 

It’s like he senses your epiphany, urging gently away until he’s leaning against the counter with your burning hot cheeks cupped in his palms. He tips your face up, and an abrupt sound somewhere between a singular soft chuckle and a scoff erupts from his nostrils. 

Your eyes are squeezed shut.

“Hey,” he speaks softly. “Hey, look at me.”

You breathe through your stuffy nose, cracking one hesitant eye. 

“Heeeey!” he whispers with subdued triumph. “There you are, shy girl.” 

His eyes are beautiful and so,  _so_ blue. You can’t remember if you’ve ever seen anything so blue. Smiling down at you with such kindness and sweet, tempered affection, he looks like a literal angel. 

If he wasn’t holding your face up, you would have hidden again. You go sort of faint, and you realize that you’ve been awake what has to be nearing 24 hours, much of it engaged in either extreme physical activity or severe emotional distress. 

“I need to go to sleep,” you say unthinkingly, words muddled because of his hands smooshing your cheeks together a bit. 

“I’m Dick Grayson,” he takes the moment to offer you his civilian name. “And I am afraid I only have one bed.”

“That’s okay. I don’t want to be by myself.” 

His impossibly wide eyes find a way to be even wider, a mock expression of shock puckering his lips into an ‘O.’ 

“Never mind what I just called you. You’re my not-so-shy girl.”

You pull his hands off of your face, giving him the same tired eye-roll that you so often use to respond to him. 

“Not your girl, just tired and traumatized.” You turn and lead him toward the staircase. 

“I mean, fair enough.” In a lower voice you only half think he means for you to hear, he mumbles, “For now…” 


	4. See You There (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you please do “The ladies love a guy who’s good with kids.” with Dick? Either with the reader as a single mom or them babysitting for someone.  
> -possiblyelven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m happy to do this!!! I know you asked for this with the Gwennie in mind, but it ran away from me. I just loved the idea of a rambunctious little boy absorbing all of Dick’s attention at a playground they shouldn’t even be loitering in, and so here that is. xD
> 
> I hope you like it even though it isn’t entirely what you had in mind!
> 
> Also, I’m naming the boy Benjamin. No idea why, not particularly even interested in the name, but yeah. That’s where we at with this one. 
> 
> Tag List: @possiblyelven , @thepuckishrogue , @jinkies-its-a-writer, @queeniepearls (If you want to be tagged, let me know! For more fics, check out my masterlist.)

 

It would be a euphemism to say that your son is adventurous. That’s usually what you go with when the other moms on the playground stare in horror as your wily boy finagles himself to the tippy-top of jungle gyms or backflips out of the seat of his swing. You fuss at Ben when he does things like this, of course. Warn him that it’s dangerous and caution that one day he’ll hurt himself badly if he doesn’t learn to be more careful.   
  
These warnings seem to do nothing but encourage him, often resulting in epic bouts of _the-floor-is-lava_  that involve scrambling on top of bookshelves that aren’t strong enough for his weight. That’s what happened last Wednesday, at least. You and Ben made it home from the park perfectly whole, save one biting, judgemental comment from another mother about your lack of vigilance. Comparatively, an extremely successful day at the park. Safely at home in the apartment, however, things went terribly awry with the aforementioned bookshelf.  
  
Ben wound up with four staples in the top of his head and a very interesting haircut. You were hoping, once the gauze was no longer necessary, that you could ruffle his mop of shaggy hair enough to hide the indications of his injury. It would be such a shame to cut his hair. You love it so, reminded fondly of Ben’s father by the fluffy, messy curls that tumble all over his darling little head.  
  
The gauze though, and the awkward length to which part of his hair was trimmed in the ER, has you nervous about encountering some of those other moms at your usual park this afternoon. And so, braving the commute and selling it to Ben as an adventure (rather than social avoidance), you head to one of the large and well-maintained playgrounds in Gotham City’s Robinson Park. Ben gets rowdier as you approach the sprawling playground, barely containing himself and he starts to drag you forward. He’s tucked into a brightly colored jacket bearing the emblem of Robin, the ever beloved Gotham child-vigilante. Ben is obsessed with him and often refuses to leave the house without this hoodie and a makeshift mask in place. When his feet hit the rubber playmats beneath the first section of the playground, he’s off like a rocket and half-way up the slide before you can spout your usual cautions.   
  
You do anyway, starting with a slide-specific rule. “Ben! Please, honey, don’t go  _up_ the slide! Slides are for sliding  _down_. You promised to be careful today!”

He responds with a distracted acknowledgment that echoes oddly in the tube of the slide, still climbing upwards. “Remember, at the park I’m Robin!” he reminds you with very little patience in his tone.   
  
You chuckle to yourself, happy to see that this particular section of the park isn’t very busy. Ben can’t disturb the other children if all of the other children are playing elsewhere.   
  
You look over the six main jungle gyms, remembering a much smaller, dingier park from your girlhood days. Each of these sections has aesthetically matched slides, monkey bars, and other accouterments to give them flavor as individual play areas. Wayne Enterprises donated all of the materials for fixing up Robinson Park last fall, and the renovation is less than two months finished. You rarely leave your borough over in East End, and so it is as exciting for you to see someplace different as it is for Ben to have somewhere new to explore. 

As your son vies for control over a game of make-believe with the two other children in this same area, you let your mind and eyes wander. You lived downtown near this neighborhood with your parents when you were young. Neat brick townhouses with mullioned windows and iron fences. Cream-colored stone with planters full of flowers and almost no litter. All of the trash neatly tucked into bins and dumpsters instead of heaped on the streets with dogs and desperate people competing for scraps…

Raising your son in the East End hadn’t been your idea. You gave up security and familiarity for love, made a baby with it, and then it disappeared in the middle of the night. No word. No note. Not even a goodbye. 

You try to pull yourself from your melancholy thoughts and dredge up the eagerness that buzzed in your chest for the entire journey here. Your eyes seek out your son, as they so often do when you feel yourself teetering toward heartache. You expect to see him atop some dangerous portion of the playground, crowing his little lungs out and boasting about being the best Robin. Instead, you find Ben speaking with a stranger who had, to your knowledge, not been there a few minutes before. 

The man is tall. Rather, he’s taller than you and taller than your husband had been. Admittedly, these are not exactly feats of height. Still, something about him sets your heart racing and has you ambling over, mentally fumbling for the most socially appropriate way to extract your son. He’s speaking to the entire set of children in an animated fashion, winks at a brunette woman who’s made it there before you, and then breaks into a chain of back handsprings?  
  
You stop in your tracks, further confused. The last time you saw another adult do gymnastics on a playground had been… never. You’d never seen that. It’s weird, and now all the kids and the other mom are gathering around him to clap and cheer as though it is a perfectly normal, respectable thing to do.  
  
Perhaps he’s the father of the other children? That would maybe be okay. You could handle that.

But no? It would appear not, as the child he selects to lift up and set on his shoulder is  _yours_? 

“Ben!” Your voice comes out more hoarse than you’d intended, and you sprint the last bit of distance. 

“Gosh,” your son sighs, hiding his face behind a hand and motioning toward you with the other. “This is my mom, everyone. She’s really embarrassing.” 

“Hey, that’s not very nice,” the man says, jostling your boy on his shoulder. “Hello, it’s good to meet you. I’m Dick Grayson. I own Haly’s Circus, and we’re setting up the tents not too far away from here. Thought I’d take a walk and see if I couldn’t sell some tickets!”   
  
You reach to shake his hand, still unsure and uncomfortable with the fact that he’s holding your son. Trying to communicate that with your gaze alone seems ineffective, and so you are again left adrift as you think of a polite way to scream  _put down my child, strange man from the circus!_  

The other woman, the dark-haired mom, beats you to his hand in the same way she’d beaten you to the show. She grabs onto him with acrylic claws and gushes about how he’ll be seeing  _her_ at the show for sure.   
  
Mildly horrified by the blatant nature of the woman’s flirtation and doing nothing to hide this, you clear your throat. “Ben, honey, please?” You hold your arms up, waiting for him to dive off of the man and into the safety of your person. “Ben?”

“Can we go to the circus, Mom?” he asks, pretending not to see that you’re reaching for him. 

You huff, resigning to the fact that you’ll have to speak to the man in order to retrieve your son. You grit your teeth, swallowing a lifetime of reflexive shyness, and look up to meet the man’s very blue eyes. “I’d like my son back, thank you.”

“Sure,” Dick chirps, pleased to finally get some eye contact from the pretty redheaded mom he’d caught daydreaming on the other end of the park. He plops the boy into her waiting arms and smiles his best smile. “Sorry to see him go though. Kid’s a natural!”

The praise gets Ben glowing, little chest puffed and cheeks pink from more than the early autumn chill. Your heart softened some, feeling your kindergartener safely on your hip. Ease settles over your cresting anxiety only after you’ve checked the bandage beneath Ben’s hat and double checked that he’s alright. 

Dick takes it well enough, understanding that it is perhaps unnerving as a parent to be unfamiliar with an adult who is socially engaging your child. “Will we be seeing  _you_ at the circus?” he asks quietly, having waited out your back and forth with Ben as well as the overt advances from the other lady.

“Um?” You’re not sure how to answer, trapped beneath the eager gazes of both the man and your son. Ben whines like a puppy, an irritating game that had somehow been endearing when he was a toddler. “I dunno’ Ben. We can’t do Friday night skating with your soccer team  _and_ go to the circus. Not in the same pay period. I’m sorry.” 

Before the boy gets a chance to go entirely crestfallen, Dick intervenes. “I have some tickets on reserve. There’s a show starting a few hours from now, if you don’t have any plans. I don’t mind giving you two a couple tickets.” 

You eye him again, no longer feeling pressured and leaning back toward suspicious. 

“I also teach gymnastics classes which-” Dick holds up a finger. “I feel would benefit Ben a lot more than soccer, judging by the way that he lept from the top of that playground.“

“Excuse me?” 

“Too far?” Dick backtracks some, wondering where to lead this conversation. Usually, particularly with women, he found it easy to construct his desired outcome. 

You’re making things difficult.

“Yup,” you say with a nod, earning another woeful sigh from your son. 

Dick goes for a drastic measure, hoping that you’d pick up the bait if given proper breathing room. He turns and begins to walk away, calling back, “Don’t worry about the classes then, forget I said anything. Just come to the show! Ask for Grayson’s tickets at the counter. Enjoy the circus or don’t, but the option’s there!”

He hears the little pretend Robin begging behind him and hopes that he’ll see the both of you there.   


End file.
